


a TMA whumptober fill fic

by EdilMayHampsen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, No warnings yet, TWs in notes, Whumptober 2020, mild body horror, tags being added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdilMayHampsen/pseuds/EdilMayHampsen
Summary: It's all angst! TWs at the top of chapters
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 37
Kudos: 49
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Day 1. Stay With Me

**Author's Note:**

> tw descriptions of mild body horror, no blood or gore

The safe house began as just that.

Safe. 

Now Jon spends his days (Or rather, the periods between sleep, what can be  _ called _ a day.) counting. 

He and Martin take one less step each time.

It's such a small thing, a number meant to be ignored even if noticed. Just one less step.

Maybe Jon  _ should  _ ignore it. Stay here where the curtains are that shade of dusty yellow he didn't know he loved, and Martin dances around the kitchen making pancakes. Dances because there's nothing much else to do.

Martin takes more steps than Jon. He doesn't go on walks anymore, there's nothing outside worth seeing anymore, but they've cleared the guest bedroom into nothing but floorboards so that Martin can close the door, and close his eyes, and  _ move _ . 

Some days Jon will press himself into a corner and watch, counting, as Martin grows sick of humming the songs he knows and starts making some up, losing himself in the music just the same. Pressing everything else away, ignoring the world, and, most days, ignoring Jon for that time he uses to just feel okay. 

A time one step shorter each day.

Jon grips his mug harder, pouring tea to the back of his throat. The heat still hurts, the nerves fire, but nothing in Jon will blister or swell, his existence is one of pain without destruction, so he keeps drinking until his mug is empty.

Martin slides a plate in front of him, sitting down across from Jon with his own. Jon pokes at the food with his fork.

It isn't a matter of energy. Calories are numbers, tangible, measured. This world doesn't care about the tangible anymore. 

No, this house leeches  _ will _ from them. Every day it takes Jon zero point one seconds longer to get out of bed, and he wasn't quick to it in the first place. Every day Martin's shoulders sit zero point zero zero one degrees lower. The air a bit more oppressive, hope a little less soothing. They find false comfort here, impaled on the fang of this parasitic place.

It will be six hundred and twenty-eight more days before Jon stops moving entirely, collapsed in their bed, and paralyzed. Martin will go on for three hundred and eighty-seven after that. Dancing as well as he can, making food if Jon's in any position to eat it, running his fingers through Jon's hair that refuses to cease tangling, even though it hardly moves.

Then one day, Martin will wake up. Hopefully in a position to meet Jon's eyes, which will no longer shut, and realize he doesn't have the will to even hug Jon closer.

Jon wonders if Martin's shoulders will keep angling down, compressing into himself as they shrink into specks of dust who know nothing more than the razor-thin, false content of this so-called home. They won’t mourn each other, even as their bodies touch for the last time, they will be so  _ grateful _ to be  _ okay _ . Their last atom may blink out of existence, but the emotion will remain. It won’t be love.

“Is something wrong, Jon?” Martin asks with his fretful smile. He doesn’t want to know but knows he must, Jon doesn’t have to read his mind to see that.

“If I leave,” Jon asks slowly, “if I said we have to leave the safehouse, will you stay with me?”

Martin looks away. 

That’s one of the things Jon’s always loved about him, those small hesitations, having someone in his corner who  _ believes _ in Jon, but not enough to follow him without thought. Who fights with him, doubts him, and corrects him. Because, no matter what this wretched world wants Jon to believe, He is not a god.

Martin’s eyes travel to the window, curtains drawn tight against the things outside as if covering them does anything to make Jon stop knowing. Martin looks to their full pantry, which always replenishes itself with necessities and never comforts, to the popcorn ceiling that makes his fingers itch to smooth out. Martin looks down at his hands, which curl into two fists, a personal symbol of bravery, and anchor in himself.

He sighs. “Yes, Jon.” Jon stands to find their bags before the house makes them disappear, “I would follow you almost anywhere. Aren’t I a fool?”


	2. Day 2. Starvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the intervention, Jon learns to feed himself the right way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PAY ATTENTION TO THESE PLEASE this one got darker than I thought  
> -lots of mentions of self-harm  
> -past self-harm  
> -self-harming ideations   
> -No actual self-harm this chapter  
> -mentions of suicide, no suicidal ideations  
> -mentions of cannon typical murder & other grievances  
> -allusions to addiction, smoking metaphor  
> -brief opioid mention  
> (Author tried to be respectful, is not an addict nor knows any addicts, kept this as brief as possible. Please tell me if I did something wrong or disrespectful.)  
> -eating behaviors that may be reminiscent of ED  
> -thoughts about death but not in the suicidal way  
> Positive-if-not-happy ending, No ships, but mentioned JM

The smell of food turns Jon’s stomach, rubbing like salt against the open emptiness. Making him blanch. He keeps the door to his office shut tight at lunchtime when the people, who though officially his assistants might more accurately be called his captors, bring in their dishes bursting with chili and fragrance. 

Statements used to have that same appeal.

Jon rests his head in his hands as that animal bitterness swells up in his shoulders. He is not a hunter, he has  _ seen _ hunters, but that urge to wrench and tear and render into  _ meat _ the things in his path lingers around him despite that. 

Even blood-red dries to their bureaucratic brown. Gertrude killed. Elias Killed. Jon should get a go at it at least once, for the greater good. At least victims leave encounters alive. It's for his own survival.

But he doesn’t  _ need _ it. 

He claws at the back of his neck with the reminder, like when he’d started smoking and hadn’t quite shed the stigma, already addicted, not yet shameless. Not dependent, not quite, but damn does it feel terrible without his- his fix.

But this isn’t something he can buy at a drugstore. Not sugar, not nicotine, even opioids would just be another slow death for Jon and Jon alone. The starvation in consuming instead of lacking. Even that wouldn’t hurt anyone else. 

Jon doesn’t want to hurt anyone else.

He looks down at his own wrists. There’s nothing sharp in his office, but Jon could find something easily enough. He could do it right now if he were willing to brave the scents outside. That’s how they always do it in movies, yes? Splitting the forearm into pretty, uneven sections. Scars layered over blood like a tapestry. The Archivist in him finds the image oddly soothing, smelling of vanilla creme that doesn’t burn him. Vanilla with the overnotes of something metallic red.

The movies never get it quite right, though. Those scars  _ show _ , they bring pity and gloom and to some, a horrible reminder of times long past, what Jon is trying to fast from. He is not an omen. He is not an omen. 

He is just a man who’s knuckles stick out too far from his fingers.

No, if he were to hurt himself it’d be in some less visible way. Denying one’s god satisfaction, for instance, comes back to them eventually. Isolating oneself- Jon thinks of the ghost of Martin that dusts this place like a chiffon nightgown over carpet- is another way. Martin watches, he see’s Jon’s state. Jon knows he knows. Martin’s concern bucks and rears somewhere far, far from where Martin can reach it

The people around Jon all hurt themselves by hurting others, reveling in the backlash before retreating to lick their wounds with the false innocence of an animal fresh from a trap.

Sasha did it by trying too hard, Jon thinks. Probably. He can never be too sure with her memory.

Most people do it in small ways, nails dug into the fleshy parts of fists, smiles where they were not earned, staying up too late for the thrill of knowing one might suffer come morning. Small and sharp pains as a distraction from the larger, duller ones that fall over so many of their lives like a weighted blanket gone awry.

Fear.

Maybe Jon’s fear is of the flesh, now- Before Jon can think, he twitches a finger.

Good.

Maybe his fear is of the corruption, his body scraped clean like a coconut in the hands of a hungry child- his wrist flows into the movement of an elbow.

Good.

What might take him, then? Would it be sickness or decay? Something that creeps or something that writhes or maybe even something that flies? Jon isn’t sure. It’d be easy enough for something parasitic to suckle on his need to be needed. A life source instead of a pawn, that’d be a nice change- The elbow flows to the shoulder, side, hips, feet, Jon is standing, then walking, and his door is open.

The scent of food hits him and Jon’s moving before he has a chance to gag, escape is a motion of momentum, he knows, wedging bits of hope in the gaps left by dreadful introspection and heaving with all one's might  _ before _ they are ready because  _ help is not coming _ .

Imagines of outside the institute come in flashes. He moves with the familiarity of having lived here a good portion of his later youth. Though his eyes are wide open (they always, always will be) his vision is either black or his mind is somehow looking away. 

Jon doesn’t care. He’s preoccupied with an article on his phone. Refeeding syndrome. He won’t see a doctor, no, best not to involve anyone else if he can help it. Potassium matters. He grabs a multivitamin off the shelf of a drug store, cheap and chalky, easy to grind. Someone is trailing him. Basira. Good. There won’t be the temptation to reach for the woman on aisle three who went down a hole of clickbait articles until she couldn’t be sure if any of the celebrities she so admired existed at all, or were just made up for scandal. 

When Jon stumbles back to the institute, (he finds Basira holds the door, but doesn’t find the strength to thank her) lunch is over. Good. Fine. 

People stumble out of the breakroom when Jon stumbles in.  _ Whatever, keep going _ . And just as quickly he’s choking down his blend of crushed vitamins, instant oats and protein powder that’s  _ blessedly _ vanilla. 

Jon can see a little better now. In the way that Matters. The human way. He didn’t realize how grimy their break room was.

It’s peaceful outside his head.

Jon holds himself by the elbows and laughs, then. It hurts where the slush slides down into an unused digestive system, he doesn’t care. Because Jon’s done it again, just like that. The escape, it wasn’t lost to him. He doesn’t  _ need _ Martin to save himself. He doesn’t  _ need _ anyone- and Jon has to pull himself away from that train of thought before he starts weeping with how much he  _ wants  _ it. 

Jon strokes his fingers reverently over the scars on his arms that healed many years ago. And he’s grateful. Not for some bullshit reason of it making him stronger, no, the doctors could have gotten to him far earlier than they did. But Jon’s forever grateful the scars could scar at all. Not a reminder of pain, but a reminder that he will stitch himself back together, however changed. That skin crawls over muscle and that muscle moves him forward in boughts beginning with the twitch of fingers and continuing into his momentum.

Jon suspects his death isn’t many years from now, he’d come to terms with the fact when he’d called himself  _ The Archive _ . But when Jon dies, though it may not be grand, though it may not be heroic, it will  _ not _ be by his own hand. Jon is  _ done _ hurting people. He’s a person too, now. He eats. Jon is  _ done _ hurting himself. 

He’ll face that dull and heavy press of human fear that he sees like no one else can see, with both the ability and the empathy, and if his arms are a latticework of blood and cuts and scars than  _ damn _ all that his or any god claims is holy, Jon’s legs will be his messiah, and he will turn onto his back and push until his weak,  _ human _ heart gives out.

But that is for another day.

The escape is a thing of momentum. So Jon straightens his tie and laughs at himself for wearing one in his state- professionalism beats all, apparently- and goes to fix himself a glass of water.

Tomorrow, Jon will eat breakfast.


	3. Day 3. stabbed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon goes to the hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tws today are cannon-typical Jon injury.  
> pretty chill!

“Relation to patient?” 

“Boyfriend.” Martin says before Jon even has the chance to open his mouth. His lies are surprisingly fluid. Jon didn’t know it before, but he can trust Martin now. He finds himself grateful to be on Martin’s good side. 

He’s in too much pain to even blush, the blood is busy coming out Jon’s side. The doctor gets to them quickly, a small woman, and she tells Jon to lay on the table, pulling up his shirt to examine his stab wound, chatting in a soft voice. “So how did this happen?”   
  
“I think the story is that he stabbed himself with a bread knife, unless you’re ready to tell the truth, Jon?”   
  


Jon stays silent.

The doctor shakes her head in exasperation, “Do you know if the knife was rusted?”

“No, I don't.”

“Tetanus, then. Stay here, We’ll get you stitched up in a moment.” She slips out of the room.

“Jon?” Martin presses.

“Martin?” Jon replies.

Martin sighs. 

The doctor slips back in, pulling a cart behind her, “M- ah.” She looks down at her clipboard, “Mr. Blackwood, if you’d like to wait outside.” 

Martin shoots Jon as last glare as he leaves. 

The doctor preps her needle, checking for air pockets, “Localized anesthetic.” She explains.

Jon nods and looks resolutely at the ceiling. He feels a pinch and a sting, and then numbness. He’s only vaguely aware of her hand on his side, and the tug of skin coming together. He expected more pain, honestly. It’s nice to know that when he gets stabbed again, the recovery process won’t be all that complicated. 

She preps a second needle, and stabs it into Jon’s upper arm. “Tetanus” 

“Mhm!” He chokes out. Jon hates shots.

She clicks a pen, asking a series of questions about previous conditions, Jon answers on autopilot. He’s  _ tired _ . It’s been a long day, at least Martin is waiting in the lobby to- to- Take Jon Home he supposes.

Now he does blush.

“I think we’d both rather avoid the opiates.” Jon hums in confirmation, “I’ll prescribe ibuprofen for the pain. 800 mg, three times a day. Don’t miss a dose, you’ll regret it. Let’s just be glad you didn’t, ah,  _ fall onto a knife _ with any body parts that won’t heal on their own.”

“Yes, thank you Doctor-”

“Li. Let’s hope you don’t have to see me again, though, yes? No use in introductions.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Jon goes to stand, but she shows him the flat of her hand.

“I’ll get your boyfriend in here and he'll have you out. Bedrest, don't lift heavy things until you’re healed, you know the deal.”

Jon hums again. They both know he doesn’t intend to listen.

Dr. Li shuts the door softly behind her. As soon as she does, Jon stands to pick up his bags. 

Martin  _ slams _ the door open, “I  _ knew _ you were going to do that. I knew it! Sit down.” He points back to the hospital bed, Jon doesn’t see room to argue. Sheepishly, he sits.

Martin surveys their stuff. He’d rushed them off to the hospital, but Jon insisted on Taking his backpack, and Martin had a messenger bag of his own. Jon finds himself surprised by how full it is, but looking back, Jon was far from the only one to take work home. He ought to thank Martin for his dedication. 

The messenger bag goes over Martin's shoulder first, and then Jon’s backpack.

Martin turns to Jon, and holds out a hand. “I’m still mad at you.” He says with a smile, “Come on, let’s go get you some rest.”

Jon takes his hand, leaning into Martin when he frames his forearm in front of Jon’s stomach, holding him steady. It feels good. Things always sneak up on Jon, which is surprising for an Avatar of  _ knowing _ . If only he paid more attention, leaned into the knowledge a little farther…

But with Martin’s hand on Jon’s back, He feels safe. 

Martin’s car smells like fast food in a pleasant way. Jon lets himself into the passenger's seat while Martin pops the trunk. He takes it upon himself to turn on the radio, noting the station Martin was on, just in case Martin’ll need it, before he changes the channel to jazz.

When Matin closes the driver side door, Jon knows the pressure of his silence. He expects Martin to pull out of the parking lot without a word, to make Jon suffer in turning over his mistakes in his head. But Martin only takes a breath. 

“I’m very upset with you, Jon.”

“I know, I-”   
  


“I know you’re feeling stressed right now, but let me talk first, Okay? I need to- I need to get this off my chest, it’s been too long.” Martin grips the steering wheel tight, “You are a  _ grown man _ , Jon. You hear me? You are too old to be getting yourself hurt! And too old to be lying about it when you need help!”   
  


“I don’t need help.” Jon mumbles. 

Martin  _ screams _ . Frustration falling out in a sound so loud it makes Jon flinch. “You! You- _ you _ . Goddamnit, Jon.” Martin wilts against the wheel, his face making the horn blare. Martin doesn’t seem to care, he unfurls himself and leans back against his seat, “I don’t know what it’s going to take for you to change, Jon. I just know it’s going to be extreme. I almost hesitate to wish it on you, but it’s coming anyways, whatever it is. And I don’t know if I'll be able to be there for you when it comes, do you understand? But you come and get me. You come and get me.”

Jon nods, mind blanking at how to process the emotions Martin's showing him.

“I can’t do this, not right now, but when you’re ready.”

With that open meaning left in the air, Martin pulls out of the parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a carrd for original work! If you like my fanwork, consider checking out my short stories, essays, and poetry [here.](https://emhampsen.carrd.co)
> 
> Todays was late cause I spend SO much effort on the carrd


	4. Day 4. Tearful Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim at a funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE DONE WITH ME? AH HA HYA! I'vve written a few days tat just need to be edited so suck it. I can do a month of writing...I can.........ugh.
> 
> TWs for cannon minor character death and mourning

There’s no body in Danny’s casket, Tim knows. He isn’t allowed to say, and yet, he gets expectant looks from his friends and family members as if they want him to crack a joke and smile. As if Tim’s going to walk up the aisle and open the casket and Danny will sit up with his face painted a powdery white and speaking through the lisp of fake vampire teeth to say “ _ We Goscha!” _

He won’t. Because Danny is dead.

Tim puts that thought away, he raps it in old newspapers, because mourning is a fragile thing, and sets it somewhere high and hard to reach in his head. Tim has to get through today, after that he can cry. After that he can find out what happened to Danny. He fingers the resignation letter folded up in his pocket. He can’t shake the feeling that if he leaves it for a moment, something... _ something _ will steal it from him, and he’ll never get the chance to leave his publishing job again. The Magnus Institute will be his starting line. They’re probably frauds anyway, but there has to be something or  _ someone _ there who can help him.

Tim doesn’t want to be alone.

And yet, here he is, pulling himself back from everyone he knows as soon as something goes wrong. He should have made friends outside the office. Hell, some of his old coworkers would meet for lunch occasionally, if he asks. But he won’t ask. Tim resolves to take up those offers for after work drinks this time. Stop staying too late to climb the ladder. He’ll need his free time to look for Danny’s killers anyways.

Tim sits in the front, bowing his head while the funeral director says something Generic about Danny’s modelling career and never-ending curiosity. Tim’s wearing his chiny black tie, this silk one. He’d meant to wear the matte one. He can’t do anything right these days, can he?

“If you would like to say a few words Mr.St- Tim.” The director says, stepping away from the microphone.

Tim stands, moving forward on graceful legs. He might have the forethought to at least stumble. To look more upset, all these people are going to think it’s all Tim’s fault, that he isn’t mourning his brother, that  _ Tim _ killed Danny. And...did he? He knew where Danny was going. He let him, didn’t protest loud enough.

Tim bumps the shelf in his mind, and that high box shakes threateningly, then falls, shattering like a pandora’s box of grief.

Tim clears his throats into the microphone, wet sound echoing around the room. He tightens his shoulders against the sudden sadness. He can’t look too sad either, the mourners might worry he’d die from heartbreak, mumbling sadly to each other about the end of a lineage. 

No, Tim will  _ not _ be the last Stoker, he’ll have kids someday. He swears it to himself. 

  
Tim lets himself take a breath. “Danny…” He begins, smiling at the back wall as tears climb up to his eyes. He looks  _ perfect _ .


	5. day 5. Sleep Deprivation/ Insecrutity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wakes up without Martin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for sleep deprivation and that's it  
> sorry if you've subbed to this are are getting a tone of e-mails rn :/

The moon falls green through the yellow threadbare curtains of their bedroom. Jon hums into the duvet, letting himself revel in the warmth of the slow-minded space that comes from waking up around midnight. He reaches a hand out to fumble for Martin, who Jon swears he was culled up into, but they both move in their sleep. Martin isn’t there.

Jon doesn’t panic. He sits up slowly, tucking his feet into his two slippers that sit by the bed. There’s no light spilling from under the bathroom door and into the hallway, and Jon finds the tea kettle cold to his touch. 

He opens the front door slowly, letting the creak warn Martin of his approach. Jon smiles to himself at that thought. He knows exactly where to find Martin on nights like this, knows because he’d found out for himself, over that stretch of calm, slow safehouse weeks. Jon keeps his eyes on the floor as he walks the garden path, admiring how the gravel moves under his shoes and the grass parts before him. It’s all the little things.

When Jon brushes his arm against Martin’s where the man stands still and stiff, he stops, letting the small touch just exist. Jon turns his face up towards the stars. 

“I don’t want to be seen right now.” Martin breathes.

“I know,” Jon says, and he does, these bad thoughts, this foggy imposter trying to squeeze itself between him and Martin, it has a script. For once, Jon knows exactly what to say, “I’m not looking.”

Martin reaches over; Jon intertwines their fingers. 

“It’s always so nice out here at night time. Calm.”

Jon hums, “I’d come out here with you if you asked. You could wake me up. We’ll have tea and bring the blankets out.”

“No, you need your sleep.” Martin says.   
  


“And you don’t?”

Martin squeezes Jon’s hand tighter in a quick pulse, “It...It’s been a while for me.” 

Jon resists the urge to study Martin’s face. He hadn’t seen any bags under his eyes, there was no weariness in the way Martin moved. If Jon had only looked  _ closer _ , if he had only-

“Most nights,” Martin continues, “Most nights I just sit there and watch you. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you completely peaceful. I miss it, you know? And then sometimes...Sometimes there are nights like this where I just feel _awful_ _._ Like I’m taking something from you by just being there by just- by making you see me.”

“Oh, Martin.”

“And then I come out here and look at the stars for a while, because it’s better than looking at the fog. But you always find me, Jon. You always do.”

Martin sniffles, running the arm of his nightshirt past his nose. He let’s the rest of his tears fall in silence. Jon squeezes his hand, not letting his grip loosen, and leans his head to rest on Martin’s shoulders.

Jon does his best to break Martin’s fall when his knees go out, and he collapses to the grass of their front yard, asleep.


	6. day 6. hidden scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not!Sasha in the archives, who's trust will they btrey?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no tws except general stranger stuff

“I’ve noticed,” Tim says, pressing his hand to the wall about the thing-that-calls-itself-sasha’s shoulder. It looks coyly back up at him, “You’ve been wearing an awful lot of turtle necks lately.”

“Have I?” It says, reveling in the knowledge the voice is just a few pitches too high, the stature an inch or two too short, and Tim has  _ no clue _ . The pity it feels for him is delicious, “I haven’t noticed.”

“Oh sure. Who is it? New boyfriend? New partner? You know I don’t really care as long as  _ they _ know about  _ me _ . I’m just curious. “

“What’s that they say about curiosity?” Not-Sasha says. It laughs, ducking under Tim’s arm to put a worthless, false statement into a box filled with much the same.

He follows, leaning on the wall next to her, “Come on, spill the beans!”

It makes a show of sighing, before pulling down the neck of it’s shirt. The marks are wom scars. Nothing came out of that attack unaffected, not even it, but with a little trickle of fear Tim will see only a smattering of red hickeys.

“New Boyfriend,” it laughs. That was the lie it’d planned anyway.


	7. Day 7. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melanie in the archives, who will she yearn to kiss>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tws for reference to depression and self worth issues

Melanie stares down at the paper on her desk, scratched out so much it’s almost entirely blue. She should’ve known better than to try and write it out. The feeling never removes smoothly, even when she does get the right words on paper. The feeling just sort of hides in crevices in her heart until it’s even harder to reach. Like….Like crabmeat stuck in the legs.

She laughs at herself, then, and doesn’t realize she’s tearing the sheet to shreds until the pieces flutter over her lap. She panics, grabbing at the pieces and trying to fit them back together, trying to read words that would still be nonsense if she could see through all five of her strike throughs. Because as much as it hurts her and confuses her and makes her want to cry, it’s something to fill up the space that anger stretched out. The love. Not a good love either, something wretched and wrecking and needing what cannot be given.

She’s alone in the institute. Jon lingers somewhere in the hallways to his office and the stacks, but he won’t bother her. Melanie has a flat, she  _ has _ somewhere to go. But she can’t be sure if she can make it there without crying into her palms on the train, and she doesn’t have the money for a taxi.

If she could only- she presses her nails into the flat of her chest, drawing short scratching lines there- if she could only get it  _ out _ . She’d rather be empty empty empty. Devoid of anything in a way that can only sting her and not-

Not Georgie.

Kind Georgie who only wanted to help, to drive her to the therapist, it was a  _ simple _ thing. A well-defined boundary, a transactional relationship. And Melanie hasn’t give n anything back.

She bites her palm, because she doesn’t know what else to do. It would be nice. It would be nice to lay a hand on Georgie’s cheek and lean in past her fingers for- for-

Melanie bites down. She can Pavlov herself out of her emotions, probably. If only she has time.

She isn’t going to cry. She’s a big girl who can deal with her emotions like an adult. What’s the way to do this? She has a method, she can just..just tell her. Georgie will understand. They’ll laugh about it and things will be awkward for a day or two and then they’ll be over it. And She’ll go back to having a friend in Georgie to vent to and laugh with who she can tell  _ everything _ without worry. She hates secrets, God. Melanie wants to tell Georgie all about this girl she has a crush on, but she  _ can’t _ because Georgie is that girl and fuck. Fuck. fuck. 

Melanie screams into her hand. Quietly. She can handle herself.

Because what if Georgie doesn’t say no? She won’t anyway, she’ll say something like ‘I don’t feel the same way or ‘ I can’t support you any more than I am’ which would be hell on earth as Melanie stares at her ceiling wondering  _ what if I didn’t need the support? If I got better could I- _

But if Georgie takes Melanie’s sweaty palms in her own hands and sits next to her on the couch like they do on movie nights, hips next to one another, and Georgie’s head on her shoulder, hair dusting her neck, in a way that was  _ fine  _ at first, it was  _ fine _ , but now the touch makes Melanie flinch as all the love stoppered up inside of her expands until she feels like her body will burst with her inability to contain it. Some nights she lets herself take a deep breath and pretend that they’re together, and Melanie can whisper I love you instead of mouthing it when Georgie can’t see her face. So she can  _ have _ the affection and put it in a neat little box without the guilt.

She doesn’t even need much, only for Georgie to squeeze her hand when she’s uneasy. They could do that as friends, that would be the dream, open affection, and they can put off expectations for a few years until Melanie starts feeling discontent in their relationship again. 

Georgie might kiss her.

_ Nope! _ Melanie thinks. No, she’s using this as supplementary. She’ll get her old sources of joy back when the depression starts subsiding and she’ll be able to function on her own again. She’ll lose interest in Georgie, and it isn’t  _ fair _ to do that to her. Its a recipe for heartbreak and hatred.

Melanie repeats the thought and tries not to remember seeing Georgie at conventions, out for drinks with their mutual coworkers, and thinking  _ maybe _ . If she can pretend it started now, she’ll be alright. 

The stairwell door creeks open.

“Mel,” Georgie calls softly, making her way into the bullpen with the swish on her nightgown and sweat pants. Melanie’s always admired how Georgie didn’t  _ care _ about how she looked sometimes. How she could turn the effort on and off and walk into the institute after dark with her fair in a frizzy ponytail and curls that fall down past her cheeks in a way that is beautiful to see. A privilege, like- like the image is fragile. 

Melanie takes her hand out of her mouth.

“I’m here.”   
  


“You weren’t picking up your phone. You told me to look for you here i-”

“Oh. I forgot I said…”   
  
“To keep you accountable?”

Melanie sighs, “It’s late. You didn’t have to, I mean, I’d have gotten home-”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t be here,” Georgie says, putting on a tone Melanie knows not to argue with.

She can feel herself shrinking up, pressing her emotions back farther into her chest so that the front of her can stay careful neutral, “Yes, well...Well, thanks. I think I needed that.”

She stands, glancing nervously down at the paper straps on her desk, before picking them up one by one to pile into her palm.

Georgie lays a hand on hers, “Leave them. You can get it tomorrow. You’re tired.”

Melanie squeaks. 

“What is it?”

“I-” Melanie says, “I, I, I, I, I,” Because it’s less obvious when she focuses on how  _ she _ feels instead of how Georgie  _ makes _ her feel, otherwise it’d be  _ you you you you _ .

“I love you,” Melanie says. And all at once, a weight drops on her chest of utter dread, and a different weight entirely lifts off her shoulders. She hadn’t planned to say it, well maybe she had, but not  _ now. _ Not in the grimy institute basement with shreds of love poetry in one hand and Georgie in another. Georgie who runs her thumb slowly back and forth over Melanie’s skin in a gesture so soothing it might just be heaven.

Georgie takes a deep breath, “I know that you are someone I could love very soon.” she says. And twist Melanie’s hands until their fingers are interlaced. She pulls Melanie towards the door. 

And there they are, expectations put off just a little while, hand in hand. 

Melanie beings to cry.


	8. Day 8. [crying into their chest]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonmartin reassurance  
> I think this prompt is supplementary cause I didn't like that day 8 ones. I dunno! I chose these ages ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHHA YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE DONE WITH ME, WHUMPTOBER? YOU THOUGHT!  
> tws for self worth issues and a small word count (RIP)

The train to Scotland is a long one. 

It’s dark outside, the landscape moving past in an ominous blur, and Jon can only stare out the window as he runs his fingers through Martin’s somewhat tangled hair. The man isn’t asleep, Jon Knows, though he pretends to be. Jon says nothing. Just pretends he can’t feel the shake of Martin’s hitching breath as he sobs into Jon’s chest. He’ll talk when he’s ready.

Jon’s never had a habit of talking to himself (the tape recorders were a  _ different _ thing), and Martin knows this. He says nothing, however, as Jon rambles softly on about plans. The color their rug might be, the groceries they’ll have to stock up on, the nature of the locals. Jon reminisces, carefully avoiding mention of all those painful memories. He talks about his birthday party, and rum raisin. That part makes Martin laugh. Which makes Jon smile. They say nothing. 

That is, they say nothing until they  _ do _ . Jon hardly notices it at first, the brush of Martin’s breath through his shirt falling with a just little more purpose. When he asks Martin to repeat himself, careful to keep all judgment from his tone, Martin says a little louder.

“Am I useless?”

A little air is punched out of Jon with the question. He wants to demand  _ who told you that? Who said you were anything less than perfect? Then worthy? Then trying, Martin? Who are they and where are they? I will make them- _

He doesn’t say any of that. He knows what Martin needs right now, and it isn’t an interrogation, and  _ certainly _ isn’t more worry over the hopeless matter of Jon’s humanity. Instead, Jon allows himself the time for an inhale. In the steadiest voice he can muster, he says, “No, Martin. You aren’t.” 

“Am I- am I  _ bad _ ?”

“No.”

“Am I worthwhile?”

“Of course.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, Martin, I do,” and then, anticipating uncertainty, Jon adds, “I love you, Martin Blackwood. I do.” 


	9. Day 9. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon in the lonely what crimes will he commit?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one a few weeks ago from an idea I had that's a month old. It Sure Is Interesting!

When Gertrude was the archivist she didn’t bother with friends. Jon, on the other hand, finds himself tempted. But after the fifth time this week he's snapped at his assistants under the stress, he locks himself in his office to not bother any of them. 

The feeling is odd.

Like his ears have popped and the hair is damp, he peels the age-old parchment from his desk to read the bleeding ink into his tape recorder. But he finds his mind drifting away idly, finding it hard to remember the names he’s almost sure were mentioned just in the last paragraph. No matter. 

Jon puts the statement down. He’s probably just dehydrated. He hasn’t had anything to drink but Martin’s tea in a week. Speaking of, where is Martin? Tea time passed an hour ago.

Well no matter. Jon stands, moving to his door. He  _ should  _ get himself a glass of water, but the tea sounds awfully tempting. 

Jon’s ears pop. Hm. He doesn’t feel quite so off balance as he moves through what he finds to be an empty archives. It was rude of his assistants to have an early lunch without telling him, But Jon trusts Sasha to keep them on good time, so he pays it no attention.

The break room is small and sparse, with only a kitchenette, a table and two chairs; there would have been three, but Jon had quietly moved it into storage after he found his assistants sitting there chatting their work hours away one time too many.

He grabs a plain white institute mug from the abinet, filling it with cold water from the cooler, before putting a tea bag in. Jon looks both ways before he puts the entire set up into the microwave, but no one is around to catch him in the heinous act. 

The tea burns him when jon brings it to his lips without sugar. He deserves that, he thinks. 

His assistants really should be around at this time of day. They must have left, yes. Jon swings his feet, since they don’t reach the floor when he sits in this chair in particular unless he points his toes, in the mist gathering in the break room floor. The humidity must be good for the books, Jonathan thinks, along with the chill. Elias has their best interest in mind.

But it is a shame they didn’t invite him out. It’s like when he was a child, and after everytime he’d told his grandmother to  _ go away _ when he came home from school and went to cry into his pillow, she just stopped coming. He didn’t want her to stop coming. He wanted her to  _ stay _ . Jon wants his assistants around, even if he has to deny them time and time again for every pub Thursday he stays late to try and get this mess of an archives under control, he knows they are less and less inclined to ask him. The point isn’t if he’ll head out with them, but knowing they care. 

Martin understands that. Martin who brings Jon tea everyday at eleven exactly. Jon was under the false impression that Martin would try to stay around the longest before he realized Jon wasn’t worth it, before he stopped coming, checking on Jon, and assumed that if Jon acted like he needed no help he’d really be fine on his own. It’s all lies, though. All of it.

He misses Martin.

Jon startles himself so hard at the thought that he spills his tea all over his white blouse. He pulls it away from himself, cursing. 

He doesn’t miss Martin. Why would he miss Martin? Martin is Just Jon’s assistant and nothing more. Why would he- he-

He should help train Martin. The man is clumsy as a gallon of ball bearings on the loose, and a hundred times the size. But his work etiquette is nearly immaculate. Jon sighs, resolving to speak to Martin at his first opportunity. 

There isn’t fog on the floor anymore. 

Martin  _ screams _ .

“Jon, what the hell? How’d you get there?”

Jon jolts, looking to Martin as he sits across from Jon at the breakroom table, or rather, teeters on the chair he  _ was _ sitting on, that’s now halfway to tipping back, stopping only by Martin's hand on the wall behind him.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“ _ I’m _ not the one who came out of nowhere.”

“But you  _ are _ .”

“Jon.”

“Martin.”

Neither of them really know what they’re arguing, but they share a defiant look anyways.

Jon breaks first, sighing, “Look, Martin. I wanted to say-” The words taste funny in his mouth, “To say your work ethic is commendable. Though you make a few mistakes that you repeat to an unacceptable degree.”

“I’m sor-”

Jon holds up a hand, “Don’t be. Come to my office when you're finished here, I should’ve started training you ages ago.”

“But after this I have lunch?”

Jon pauses then, “You didn’t just- where... You know what? That’s fine. Come see me when you get back in.” Jon pats the doorframe twice, feeling a little bit like a dad offering their teen a shoulder to cry on. He steps ou-

“Jon?”

“Yes, Martin?”

“Thank you. I mean- I just want to do good by you.” Martin offers a soft smile that makes the freckles on his cheeks bend into a different, more pleasing shape. 

Jon bows his head, feeling a smile on his lips as well. “Don’t think too hard about it.” He says, and leaves before Matin can see his blazing cheeks. It’s going to be all Jon thinks about for a while.


End file.
